


On The Other Hand

by poisontaster



Series: Hands [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Hand Jobs, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-05
Updated: 2006-04-05
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam leans in. "I never got you back for that little handjob at the Flying J," he murmurs in Dean's ear.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Other Hand

**Author's Note:**

> From the Book of mona1347: In the beginning there was Mona, and Mona looked out and said: "Let there be porn. Boyporn for preference." And Lo! There was porn.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean demands as Sam crowds in next to him in the booth, so close Dean's elbows are damn near pinned to his side. He hates booths to begin with—Winchester men take up too much space and he dislikes having his exits blocked—and having Sammy penning him in on one side makes him a little nervous.

Sam grins and—though still unshaven, bloodshot and exhausted—looks way too happy to be there. Dean squints at the beers suspiciously, wondering if Sam's starting a new round of pranks. Sam catches the look and his grin widens a little. He takes a swig off one beer and then the other, left handed—showing them both harmless—then shoves one at Dean. "Y'know, something occurred to me when we were pulling into the lot here," he says.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Dean sizes up the guys at the pool table, feeling a little restless and tense. It's a dusty little nothing of a town and none of the hard boys shuffling the balls around the felt look like they're any great shakes. Look plenty ready for a scrap though, so he'll have to play it smart and cautious unless he's looking for more of Sam's homemade stitches and he is just way too pretty for that.

Sam leans in. "I never got you back for that little handjob at the Flying J," he murmurs in Dean's ear. Abruptly his right hand—that sneaky _fucker_ —is in Dean's lap, thumb stroking a rough line up and down Dean's suddenly _very_ interested cock.

Dean's knee slams into the bottom of the table and he yelps squeakily—much louder than he means to. A few folk turn and stare and he feels his ears burn red. Sam, at least, just looks placidly right back and takes another long pull off his beer. His fingers have joined his thumb, strong sliding friction that makes Dean want to whine and mewl. Not that he'd ever do any such thing.

" _Dude_ ," Dean hisses when he can collect his voice again. He shifts a little on the hard wooden bench—which is a mistake as it only gives Sam more room to thumb open the button on Dean's jeans and do a slow slide on the zipper. Abnormally long ( _and clever, mustn't forget clever_ ) fingers slip down and around, palming cock and balls both. "What the fuck?"

Sam gives him a bland smile. "Just returning the favor, man."

Dean looks at Sam, a hard and burning challenge that Sam parries easily; a silent exchange, all while Sam's fingers creep and stroke; through the slit of Dean's boxers now, warm calloused skin against his in tickling teasing little touches that make him want to buck up into it. Dean tenses, gathering himself to move.

"I don't know," Sam drawls suddenly, looking around with every appearance of unconcern. "This is a pretty hardcore bar, man. I don't think you want to advertise to all and sundry you're getting jerked off under a table by your baby brother. But…maybe that's just me."

"You are such a little _bitch_ ," Dean hisses under his breath, but he plants himself on the bench again, leaning back. He knots his hands around his own beer, breath panting quickly from his half opened lips.

"Now is that _any_ way to talk to the guy that's going to do… _this_ for you?" Sam does something extraordinarily creative with his hand, and Dean's other knee thumps into the table. Fuck. He's going to have a hell of a bruise in the morning. He manages to bite down on his moan, however, tucking his chin into his chest and making a rather embarrassing whimpering noise in his throat.

"I hate you."

Sam's grin widens. "Really?" he asks. His voice is pitched low—so as not to carry, Dean reminds himself, that's all it is—and is raspy with fatigue. "Because it seems like you like me just fine. Parts of you, anyway." Another hard-rough stroke from tip to root and back that makes Dean's teeth shut hard and his fingers tighten around the glass bottle. "Do you know how hot you look when you're trying not to make noise? It just makes me want to _make_ you make noise. Kinda…force the issue, you know?"

"Sam—" His tone is warning, but it trails off quickly into a bitten off, " _fuck_!" when Sam twists his wrist and Dean finds his legs spreading and his hips twitching whether he wants them to or not. Thank God the bar is relatively dark; thank God.

"You're so hard, Dean; I don't know that I've ever felt you this hard. You got a bit of a public places kink, brother-mine?" Sam's just playing with him now, varying speed and grip—first with his whole hand, then teasing grinds of the flat or just his fingertips—giving Dean too little to work with, other than this tightening spiral of arousal. "Yeah…" Sam sounds speculative, like his mind's a thousand miles away. "Yeah, I think maybe…you do." He punctuates the last with a squeeze- _twist_ that makes Dean's eyes cross and he curls forward, both elbows thumping on the table.

"Sam…" Dean gasps. "Sam, please…"

"Hmm." Another swallow of beer, throwing his whole head and neck into it, and Dean watches it go down, unsure whether he wants to rip Sam's throat out or press hot and feverish kisses against it. "Now…is that please _no_ , or please _yes_? Because I think I'm really, really interested in what you're gonna feel like, coming all over my hand."

Dean groans softly and that's the moment the waitress decides to bounce on over, lazy and pretty, long dark ponytail swinging as she cocks her hip and asks, "Anything else I can get y'all?" She looks over her shoulder at the small broke down stage in the front. "Band's about to go on and things'll get pretty crazy after that."

"Nah, I think we're fine," Sam answers, which is good, because Dean doesn't think he's capable, head resting on his hand and his eyes resolutely closed. His thighs ache with the effort of not thrusting, pushing into Sam's too-loose grip, his calves are cramping.

"Your friend all right?"

Dean is sure that Sam's giving this girl the full wattage of the puppy dog eyes and butter wouldn't melt in his fucking mouth as he answers, "Oh yeah. He just doesn't get out much. Bit of a lightweight. Couple beers and he's wrecked."

Dean's pride is such that he wants to snap back to such a grievous insult to his honor, but Sam's fingertips swirl in the wetness at the sensitive tip of his cock and he has neither words nor breath to do any such thing. He _is_ wrecked, and it's not the damn beer that's doing it.

"Oh." He can feel her looking at him with something akin to pity as Sam's thumb circles over and over him. "Well." Her voice warms and he knows she's looking at Sam again. "If y'all need anything, you just go on and wave your hand or give a holler."

"Well, all right. Thanks!" The outside of Sam's thigh rubs against the outside of Dean's and Dean knows there isn't shit he can do; he's going wherever Sam's evil fucking hand is leading and he's going to come all over and there is _nothing he can do about it_. Sam leans in again. "I think I have better things to do with my hand, don't you?" he asks smugly.

Dean can't even answer, trembling from heels to crown, all his effort expended in keeping quiet, keeping still.

"Dean?" Sam prods, maddening, as the band takes the stage and the crowd erupts into cheers, whoops and hollers. Dean's biting his lip, hard enough he tastes copper. Sam strokes hard, thumb chasing the vein and Dean bites down harder. "Dean?"

Dean glares sidelong, feeling like he has to pry his eyelids open to do so. "Yes, all right? _Yes_." Now that he's looking, Dean can see Sam's pupils are blown wide, and he's got a fine sheen of sweat at his hairline, making the ends of his hair curl up even more. When this is over, Dean vows, and he gets out of here with his dignity and balls intact, he's going to fuck Sam through a wall, for serious. "For the love of God, Sam…just _do_ it."

Sam swallows hard and then his grin is back, big as a Cheshire. He closes that hand, those _fingers_ around Dean's cock fully and Dean groans and then again when Sam starts to slide and rub. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, **fuck**_.

It doesn't take long after that. Dean can't help the noise that comes out of him, mercifully lost in the twang and crash of the music. It seems like it takes forever, wringing his stomach until it aches and leaving him dry and empty, thirsty as all fuck. Dean lets out a shaky, trembling breath and leans back slowly, electric aftershocks running through his thighs and belly. He looks over at Sam, who's industriously cleaning his fingers with slow licks of his tongue like he just had fried chicken.

Fucker.

"Oh, you are _so_ gonna get it," Dean promises him.

Sam finishes his beer and hands Dean the cocktail napkin from underneath. "Well, that _was_ the idea."


End file.
